Life Along the Way----Cool Green Grass

The South had a major eruption this morning---the second episode in the month of July. This time we obliterated low temperatures for the month of July. An early morning low of 59 degrees in Montgomery shattered a record-low of 66 degrees set in 1889, a National Weather Service meteorologist said, with temperatures falling to 49 degrees in Hamilton, close to the Mississippi border. This is unheard of for Alabama, as we don't experience this type of weather until late Oct or Nov. 
     
This morning,  I walked some bagged grass clippings out to the curb. My feet were bare, as this is a life long habit of a boy of the Deep South. It is amazing what happens to an old guy's mind when his old feet hit cool Bermuda grass for the first time after a long hot summer. (Today is totally out of sync. It has only teased us as we know that the sweltering heat and breath-sucking humidity of August and September will return with a vengeance.)

The first feeling is the total lack of moisture in the grass, even at 6:30 AM. It tells the mind that the humidity is low, the air is dry and the temperature is pleasant. But what really makes the impression on my mind is the cool touch of the grass as it fills the gaps of the toes and soothes the arches of the foot; it is that conditioned response the human body transmits to the brain that takes me to years gone by.

Uncontrollably, my mind drifts to college football. It is as deep a religion as the Southern Baptist denomination in the South; the SEC comes alive with both bitter rivalry and a strange love for one another, knowing that the magic could not happen if we didn't 'love to hate' each  another. 

I hear the sound of ripples hitting the front of my on Jon boat in my family pond as I troll along on a cool fall day, easily catching

my limit of fall bass under bluebird skies. 

I feel the leaves cracking under my feet as fall cleanup brings out the blower, rake and pine straw, putting my crape myrtles and other shrubs and trees to bed for the winter. 

But alas, it is only July; my drifting mind becomes my logical brain, knowing that we are experiencing a freakish cool snap that will not last. Yet
for a moment in time, it is mid September...early October...this Southern Boy's favorite time of the year! If you are a child of the South, I hope you paused and enjoyed it too. 

People Along the Way----Sex Education, Enterprise Style

The photo of the PE field at Old Junior High brought to memory a humorous story, one that involved Coach Alfred Peavy, Jr. He was my first African American male teacher and was very much a role model to not only the black students in Enterprise, but also to the white kids. He was a giant of a man when I was in 9th grade. He had an incredibly proud, erect gait that reminded me of John Wayne, yet there was humility and love in his heart to all he encountered. He truly had a calling to teach and challenged countless students to continue their education after high school.  He left us too many years ago. I loved him. And I think he may chuckle at this story.  You can read about him here. It is an emotionally charged tribute to this great educator. 
 
I encountered Coach Peavy at Old Junior High in 1971. He was a

man you immediately loved, feared, respected and revered. I was a skinny little 9th grader, and along with my best buddy Ron Bissell, we joined our other 15year old  male students with that toxic brew of adolescence running through our veins in his PE class. He didn't dress like your typical coach; he wore golf shirts, dress slacks and leather soled dress shoes most days. During our PE class, his favorite spot was under a shade tree, balancing an old rusty folding metal chair against the tree trunk. 

Coach Peavy had a special command when he wanted your attention. He would holler, "NOW NOW NOW NOW BOYS!" It was actually more like the first 4 shots of a Thompson machine gun without any spacing..."NOWNOWNOWNOWBOYS!" It was  usually followed by "STOP ALL THAT PLAYIN'!"

One day a classmate, Willie, walked up to 'the spot' and boldly went where no kid had gone before, even though there was kidding in his voice.
"Coach, you sit there in that chair and order us around. You mighta been a good basketball player once, but you just old and fat now." 
"Boy you need to hush. Stop that playin'!"
"Coach, you couldn't catch me if you tri......"

Before Willie could finish the sentence, Coach Peavy pounced like a 'wildcat' on an unsuspecting hare. Willie was fast and made a few jukes, as he knew Coach was wearing leather soled flat shoes and may be able to outmaneuver him. It didn't last long. Coach Peavy's huge hand swatted Willie's boney butt much like a big cat would do to its prey, knocking him off balance and sending him tumbling to the ground. He immediately put a knee on his back  and asked him, "WHO IS SLOW?" to which Willie hollered, "ME ME!" 

It was great fun back then; nobody was hurt (well, except Willie's pride) and there was plenty of laughter.  This incident  reminded me of the scene in 'To Kill a Mockingbird' when Atticus was forced to shoot the rabid dog. His son Jem was speechless, not knowing that his scholarly father was also the best shot in Maycomb Co. Coach Peavy made a huge point that day. He was an athlete and the relaxed state against the shade tree was merely what predators do...until they are ready to hunt.

We were 'dressing out' one day and Coach Peavy came into the locker room and shouted, "NOWNOWNOWNOW BOYS! Get changed because I want to talk to you about some issues relating to the human body! Hurry up!"

Ron Biss and I looked at each other. Finally, an adult was gonna set things right. The locker room was revving like a '68 Chevelle awaiting the start of a drag race on a country road.

Left to our own devices, most of what we knew about sex was limited or just plain wrong. A few years back in 7th grade, 3 of us boys were goofing off in homeroom before the first bell. One kid announced to me and our other friend that he knew how babies entered the world. He described (perfectly, mind you) the exit point of a human infant from the mother. My friend and I listened in utter horror and shamed him beyond belief. We didn't know what was 'down there', but we were sure that it was impossible for a baby to enter the world from such a mysterious region of the female body. (I am sure many mamas have said the same thing during labor. Ron Biss told me years later that a female friend of his described childbirth by telling him to imagine pulling his upper lip over his nose, and stretching it to his forehead. And then she said, "You are half way there.")

Coach Peavy reentered the locker room and thundered, "NOWNOWNOWNOW Boys! You see that commode over there? When you have to pee, flip that lid up. When you have to take a dump, flip that lid down. Nobody wants to sit on a lid with pee on it. Oh, and you are gonna get 'the blue ball' at times.  Just deal with it. Any questions? OK, go get your laps in."

That was it? To say that the energy of that locker room dissipated was an understatement. Forget the hopped up Chevelle. We were more like a  lowly Ford Maverick with four deflated tires and a dead battery in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. There was only one comment in the entire 'lecture' that was slightly interesting and that was this phenomenom called 'the blue ball'. (Feel free to google it, I won't go into detail.)

We figured it must be some mysterious and subsequently terminal disease for bad behavior and sordid living. It actually became quite a punch line for things related and unrelated: 
"Dude, you have had too many beers, you are gonna get the blue ball." 
"Girls from Daleville are such teases. Give you the blue ball."
"I'll see you about 7. I gotta get a shower, that nasty water at Little PC is gonna give me the blue ball."

The way I look at it, Coach Peavy was a genius. With no internet then, he allowed us to develop our own interpretation, thus preventing some, but not all, nefarious acts in our futures. What ever it was, it was linked to a discussion about a dirty toilet and therefore could not be very good. Coach, I hope you are laughing from your heavenly home.

As I left Enterprise Jr High for the high school, I was pleasantly surprised to see Coach Peavy promoted to one of two Vice Principals at Enterprise High. He and his counterpart, Coach Thad Morgan, (there are so many colorful stories about this man -- I would need a week to write) were 'running buddies' during my entire high school years and had a special mix of fear and love that kept students on the straight and narrow back then. Coach Peavy served the Enterprise System for 36 years and left this world in 2001. 

Places Along the Way----The Solitary Pre-Reunion

40 Years. Hard to believe that the day had arrived for the reunion of high school classmates from the class of '74 at Enterprise High School. I read this article recently and was struck by the deep personal connection the author clearly articulated about his hometown of Enterprise, Alabama. I was clearly looking forward to the evening's activities at the historic Rawls Hotel.

I was doing this one alone; I know how difficult some of these parties  can be on spouses. My wife didn't mind me going 'stag'; after almost 36 years of marriage, I suppose she figured I was too old and tired to get into much trouble. 
 
There was a method to my leaving Montgomery at 4:30 Saturday to arrive in Enterprise at 7. I knew I would be well over an hour early and decided to create a 'dog path' around my adopted hometown, just me and my trusty pickup truck and reminisce.

My first stop was on the northern outskirts of town, a beautiful sports complex with manicured ball parks, ponds, and jogging tracks. It did not exist during my high school years. The entry is 'protected' by a US Army Huey, the workhorse of the 1st Cav in Vietnam. A wall of memory is close by, honoring the war dead from the city. I recalled all those years of living on Ft. Rucker almost becoming oblivious to the sound of the Hueys as they seemed to fly around the clock back then. An immediate impression of the citizens of Enterprise is the deep American patriotism and support for our military,  something of a sweet irony that runs very deeply in many former Confederate cities and towns. Southerners love America and volunteer for the Armed Services at high rates. 

My  next stop: the impressive new high school in Enterprise. One of the largest public high schools in the southeast, its expansive campus speaks to the commitment this community has for education. It is even more impressive knowing this is not some large urban metropolis; Enterprise has a population of approximately 26,000 citizens.  I am extremely proud to be a graduate of the Enterprise City System.

Of course, there is a new high school because there is NO old high school. The building that held my footprints was destroyed by a deadly tornado on March 1, 2007. An event so devastating,  it brought President George W. Bush to Enterprise to support her grieving citizens. 

I was compelled to go by the barren field where my old school once stood, looking for any physical remnant of my years there.  
I found it in a set of steps leading from the lower parking lot to the old school building. The short cinder block wall attached to the 'Enterprise blue' railing was a spot I frequented along with some of my buddies. I turned off my truck and sat for a bit. I could almost hear Coach Morgan hollering, "GET TO CLASS, BOYS!" But my mind seemed to drift more to that day of infamy in Enterprise history than it did to my years there; I thought of the souls lost on that day and prayed for their families.

I would have liked to have spent more time meditating on my old stump, but I had a few more places to visit.  I ended up behind 'Old

Junior'-- Enterprise Jr High School, with one of my strongest visuals of the night. This was the P.E. field where I met my life long friend, Ron Bissell. We chatted one day early in our 9th grade year (1971) very close to those old concrete benches and found out we were both Army brats who lived on Ft Rucker. We have taken many different roads since that day but our friendship remains constant. 

I slowly drifted down College St. and noticed the landmark Elementary school, established in 1919, carved at the peak of the building. It was impressive to me even back in 7th grade as I walked home from Old Junior.

The long breaks in the pavement that stretch across College St. have not changed. My tires made that familiar 'clack-clack' as I passed over them. In fact, very little about College St. had changed at all. The old mill smokestack close by reminded me of the shift change horn, that bellowing roar we all looked forward to hearing, knowing that the school day was also coming to an end.

My conclusion about Enterprise, Alabama was pretty clear as I headed to the Rawls.  Embracing progress. Promoting excellence well beyond many small cities its size. But the paradox is as uniquely impressive; the 'clack clack' of College St. The Boll Weevil Monument.  A school from 1919. Old concrete walls and benches.   Embracing progress but preserving the small town psyche of the Deep South.  It was 7:07; I was pulling up to the Rawls Hotel fashionably late, or in Enterprise, just plain old late.
 My Solitary Pre Reunion was coming to an end. If the 'real deal' was to be anything like the last hour or so, it was going to be a wonderful night. And it was. More later.